


Something You Can Really Sink Your Teeth Into

by Bluandorange, ravenously



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Marvel Avengers Fusion, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/F, F/M, Gen, Human Trafficking, M/M, Multi, Mystery, Slavery, Torture, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6425848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/pseuds/Bluandorange, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Karen Page receives an anonymous, cryptic email, she can't help but start digging deeper. Soon enough, she finds herself investigating Alec Wilford, his company Wilford Industries, and his celebrity son Curtis Wilford, falling down a rabbit hole of research that seems to implicate them all--the Wilford family and all of their employees--as vampires posing as humans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Karen; Now

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, it's been a while since I've written much of anything and I can tell you now, this story is long and will involve many moving parts. Its kind of a big commitment I'm not sure I'll be able to pull off. So, I haven't added any relationship tags because that shit's gonna take a while before its even remotely relevant. I know its not entirely kosher to spring that shit on people, and I promise I won't; the plan is once shit starts getting hinted at, it'll get tagged. Most of the relationships will be what some would consider crack ships, which is why its important for them to develop organically and/or within reason. Romance is secondary to this, so for now don't worry about it. 
> 
> The cast is also deceptively small because I don't know who I'll manage to get to. Characters will be tagged as they appear. Thank you for your time and I hope you enjoy

 

There’s a noise and Karen is sitting bolt up-right, suddenly conscious. Her fingers press to the place between her brows as she realizes, fuck, that means she fell asleep. Checks the time; half past four in the morning. Her fingers move down to rub at her eyes. 

Slowly, she takes stock. She must’ve been out a while because God is she groggy. Coffee cup feels nearly empty and, yupp, it’s cold. She groans and throws it in the trash with the rest. Rubs her eyes again before biting the bullet and looking at her screen. Half the article is done, but as she skims, she can already tell it’s going to need a thorough rewrite. Oh, and the tail end? Gobbily-gook from her napping on her frickin’ keyboard. 

She spends a minute just holding her head, hating her life, her choices, and the fact she couldn’t even make it to the damn couch before passing out. 

She almost calls it a night right there, just gives in to the couch, gives into the fact she’ll need to pull excuses out of her ass for hitting writers block _again_. She didn’t deserve Ben’s office, all it’s space. She wasn't him. She wasn't a real journalist, who was she kidding? 

Okay, but wait, there had been a noise. That’s why she’s awake, there was a _noise_.

She tenses, then minimizes the unfinished document and pulls up her email. Bingo; source of noise, one unread message. 

…not from Matt. 

The sender isn’t any she recognizes, its just a jumble of letters. Karen lets out a disappointed sigh and slumps back against her seat. 

She’d really hoped it’d be from Matt. 

Ever since she found out about his real reason for stepping away from Nelson and Murdock, they had come to an _understanding_. He’d dig in dangerous territory and she’d bring what he’s found to light, via her new position writing for the New York Bulletin. Only, and she hated herself for thinking this, things in Hell’s Kitchen weren’t very exciting at the moment. Matt was still out there, all the time, kicking ass and taking names, they just weren’t any names worth writing about. 

Which left Karen sort of chasing her tail. And second-guessing herself, once again. 

And awake at four fucking thirty in the morning because of an email that wasn’t even good news. 

It didn’t even have a subject line. 

That actually gave her pause. Usually spam had a subject line, right? Or did she just not check her spam folder enough to know the new trends in virus and pyramid scam sharing? 

She realizes after a minute she's still staring at the email. It hadn’t gone to her spam folder. There wasn’t a weird ‘fw;’ or…anything. 

Karen draws in a slow breath, lips pursing. 

It could totally be a virus. And this wasn’t even her computer, it was the Bulletin's and she could conceivably fuck their entire network if she got this one infected. Maybe. Which would be stupid, and she’d have no excuse, she'd just expose herself as a stupid idiot who probably shouldn't be allowed near other people's computers--

She lets the breath out through her nose and brings up the task manager. She commits the current running programs to memory, then arranges the windows so she can see both of them at once.  If anything new pops up, she'll kill it right there, quick as a snake. And if that didn’t work, then….at least she could conceivably say her computer ate her homework. 

She opens the email. 

It's full of text, but her eyes are on the task manager, making sure…yeah, no, nothing. No new programs present. No pop-up from Avast telling her she’d just let in a Trojan. Which meant it was just an email. 

She begins to actually read it, a frown forming and then growing deeper as she tries to make sense of what seem to be locations, street addresses, names. She keeps circling back to the same word, though, used multiple times, attached to every address. 

‘Vamp’.

She has to be suffering from caffeine hang-over because to think that meant ‘vampire’ was fucking–

But there were other words; ‘blood bags’, ‘low blood’, ‘mid fang’, ‘high blood’

Well shit, if it didn’t mean ‘vampire’, maybe it should. 

Karen’s fingers press to her lips, eyes wide and alert. This was something. Maybe nothing, but it read like _something_. With a deep breath in, she collects herself and starts doing what she should have from the start; cross-referencing the addresses, and then the names. 

By six am, she's packing her things and heading for Matt’s place.  


	2. Curtis; Three Months Ago

As he came awake, he found himself marveling at how he felt.

This felt  _new_. 

Which was more than note-worthy. Curtis had been driven to unconsciousness by many, many things, in his many, many years and yet here he was, experiencing a new one, a new way. And it was even sort of pleasant. 

The position he was in, less so. 

He shifted in his seat, feeling the drag of chains, the strain on his shoulders as his arms refused to move with him. Cuffed, strapped, shackled, wrapped up tight in metal, yeah, alright, that was getting closer to home. 

God, what had he fucking done, and what had Wilford used on him to put him down? And why stray from the old, tried-and-true breaking of the neck? Curtis felt like he was coming down from the clouds–-this was too pleasant, not like Wilford at all. 

Something cold and smelling of gun oil pressed to his temple, lifting his head for him. First time Wilford had used a gun, too…

Curtis tried to open his eyes, but they wanted very badly to stay closed. Open half way, flutter shut. 

His head was heavy, too, so when the gun left, it dropped back down until his chin met his collarbone. There was a muffled curse and then a moment, a minute? later? something sharp bloomed on the side of his neck and Curtis was suddenly and _painfully_  awake. His whole body jerked as–-as whatever he was injected with chased away the clouds a with goddamn cannons and bombs shells.

_Adrenaline._

Curtis had been drugged and that? Had been the wake-up shot. 

As the panic died down, as he caught his breath from the manic panting he’d started into, he was finally able to see the person holding him captive. 

Human, tall, short hair, big ears–the human driver that picked him up from the party?

“What the fuck?” Curtis asked. The guy didn’t seem to hear him, or was just too busy as he discarded the empty syringe and traded it for gloves. Gloves that looked too thick for Curtis to bite through. Smart. Prepared. Curtis felt around his mouth and found his teeth still filed, making the gloves more or less unnecessary, but still. What the fuck indeed. “Can I help you?” 

The man huffed a string of laughs and said without looking up, “Sure can. Why don’tcha cry home t’mommy for me.”

It took Curtis a minute to realize what he meant and once he had, he couldn't help but sigh, deflating against the chair. “You want me to let Wilford know I’ve been captured.”

“Sure do.”

Curtis leveled a disapproving look the man's way. “That’s fucking stupid.”

The man didn't reply, just kept moving around guns and ammunition set out beside him, pausing now and then to take a drink from a disposable cup of coffee. 

“…he won’t come,” Curtis said, a little louder.

“Won’t he?” asked the man. “For his only son?” His gruff voice took on a lilt, like he found it funny. He even made his eyes wider, even though they never left his weapon cache. 

Curtis was starting to pity this man. Half prepared, but off in every place it mattered. He clearly knew _what_ he was dealing with, but not who. And that was the killer, right there, the  _who_. You couldn't underestimate Wilford. Curtis had learned that lesson the hard way.

“Not his son,” Curtis said. “Hell, he doesn’t even like me.”  Something, the comment or maybe the tone, rubbed his captor the wrong way, because he unsheathed a knife and stalked toward Curtis with clear and violent intent. Curtis spoke faster, not fearing the impending pain so much as the accompanying blood-loss; “if he sends anyone, he’ll send dogs, low level grunts, if your goal is to get _him_ , he’s not gonna fall for it. Not for me. _I'm_ not how you get him.” 

The man stood there, practically toe to toe with Curtis, and rolled the knife in his hand, deep-set eyes _considering_ this new information. Considering Curtis. Considering Curtis' _use_. 

Finally, the man motioned to Curtis with the tip of his knife, the movement casual, like the blade posed no real treat. Curtis could imagine this man slicing apples with the knife, and eating the chunks right off the blade. The man motioned to him and said, “…Then yer gonna tell me how I get him.”

 


End file.
